


as snow to fire

by tokyonightskies



Category: Goblin Slayer (Anime), Goblin Slayer (Manga)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: With a huff, Spearman watches how Guild Girl perks up considerably. “I don't get it,” he whines, clenching his hands into fists. “What's so special about him?”It was strictly rhetorical. So he certainly didn't expect his companion to reply: “You could try to find out… maybe? He is perhaps more, than he seems. At first glance.” When she notices she has his attention, Witch takes a puff of her pipe-- thin wisps of faint purple smoke float to the ceiling. She adds coyly, “Now is a good time, as any. Don't you agree?”“Wanna bet there are just more goblins at second glance?” Spearman mutters derisively, shifting his weapon from shoulder. No response. He glances at the front desk.Still, there's gotta be something worthwhile about the guy.-Spearman decides to look into the reason why Goblin Slayer's such a chick magnet. /Of course/ he had to go and fall head over heels for the guy himself.





	1. introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to, ok. because i saw some cute fanart of them and fell pretty hard. that's reason enough, isn't it? so, this is dedicated to the amazing artists over at pixiv in the ゴ腐スレ tag. please check out their art. you won't be disappointed!
> 
> getting the characters down was a challenge, so if you think i did a good/bad job, please please please give me feedback. i would def appreciate it. this is very much a wip. but i tried to write the intro in a way it could stand-alone if i couldn't continue the story. although i'm real motivated to do so! this work references the light novels sometimes, but doesn't contain any spoilers outright.

They made it back to the Guild just in time. The storm's finally caught up; the rain rattles against the building, and the wind is a madman's howl through the streets. It's hard to tell whether it'll be over in a few minutes or will last the whole damn night. Spearman wipes the sweat and grime off his face with the back of his hand, wincing when he catches the gash on his cheek.The blue-dyed leather of his glove comes back blood-stained. _Shit_. Must've peeled the scab off. Witch tuts disapprovingly and rummages around in her pouch, then hands him a perfumed handkerchief. Her lips curl into a lazy smile. Indulgent.

During the trek back to town Spearman daydreamed about how he’d report back to Guild Girl and how cool he’d look, now he has to stand there at the counter with a hankie pressed to his cheek.  _ Unless _ ...

Turning to his companion with puppy dog eyes, Spearman wheedles, “You have one spell left. Can't you work some magic on me, for a job well done?”

Witch raises a brow and while  _ pretending _ to mull over his request, she daintily crosses one leg over the other. The candlelight flickers over her features, her generous cleavage. With a tilt of the head, she regards him and answers unhurriedly, “If I were to. You would lose your mark of heroism. No?”

Catching Guild Girl shuffle through a stack of papers from his peripheral, Spearman deflates a little. Witch rolls her eyes and lights her pipe. Maybe Guild Girl would fuss over him for a change? He pokes his tongue to the inside of his cheek, pressing his palm harder to the cut. She always bends over backwards for Goblin Slayer when he gets back from a quest. Resentment rears its ugly head at the thought. Spearman doesn't have the energy to pretend he never noticed how badly she crushes on Goblin Slayer. The fight with those bandits took a lot more than he anticipated.

It would be nice to have Guild Girl smile at him like she means it though.

The massive wooden door opens with a shuddery creak. Spearman groans when he sees Goblin Slayer in the open doorway-- after five years, he recognizes the silhouette of that dirt cheap helmet immediately. A spray of rain gets blown into the hall. Goblin Slayer and his party file inside, striking a more pitiful sight than usual, soaked to the bone and stupid tired from their adventure.  _ Speak of the devil. _ They shuffle over to the front desk, their shadows crooked on the floorboards.

With a huff, Spearman watches how Guild Girl perks up considerably. “I don't get it,” he whines, clenching his hands into fists. “What's so special about  _ him _ ?”

It was strictly rhetorical. So he certainly didn't expect his companion to reply: “You could try to find out… maybe? He is perhaps more, than he seems. At first glance.” When she notices she has his attention, Witch takes a puff of her pipe-- thin wisps of faint purple smoke float to the ceiling. She adds coyly, “Now is a good time, as any. Don't you agree?” 

“Wanna bet there are just more goblins at  _ second _ glance?” Spearman mutters derisively, shifting his weapon from shoulder. No response. He glances at the front desk.

_ Still, there's gotta be something worthwhile about the guy. _

Guild Girl's dropped everything now Goblin Slayer's in front of her. Her hands are flat on the countertop as she listens captively to Goblin Slayer's report, no doubt standing on the tips of her toes to catch every word. Humming to himself, Spearman concedes Witch has a point. After all, for the entirety of Spearman's adventuring career Goblin Slayer has been this 'goblin-obsessed weirdo’ on the backdrop, and he never really bothered to get to know him better. Witch tips her head back and regards him with narrowed eyes. A long shadow falls over the slope of her throat.

Handing the bloodied handkerchief back, Spearman makes a face and says aloud, “Okay, okay, I guess you're right... Hey, you up for a drink?”

The corners of Witch's mouth curl into a smile. She rises languidly from her seat, with the grace of a cat stretching under the midday sun. Together they head over to the front desk. Goblin Slayer's party doesn't require much convincing; the prospect of drink, food and the tavern’s grand fireplace easily tides them over. Only Goblin Slayer himself remains hesitant. Spearman figures the guy had probably planned to get back to that farm right away.

“Gah you can't be serious, Orcbolg!” High Elf Archer exclaims loudly, hands on her hips and eyebrows furrowed.

Before she can berate him in earnest, Dwarf Shaman pitches in, “Come now, Beard-cutter. You've walked through the same storm as us. It's better to sit this one out. And you might as well fill your stomach while you're at it.”

Even Guild Girl nods in agreement at the dwarf's words. Cornered, Goblin Slayer tenses up, making this soft, confused sound that Spearman would've never heard if he hadn't been standing so close to him. The heavy rainfall drowns out most noise.

“I see,” Goblin Slayer murmurs. Water drips down the expanse of his chest piece, and the fur of his collar's wet, weighed down. Dried blood on the buckler around his arm. His leather boots caked with mud. Other adventurers always turn up their nose when they see him in his gear, but he's downright sorry-looking now.

Spearman snaps his gaze back to the visor of that cheap helmet when Goblin Slayer slowly says, “Alright.”

.

The tavern's awash with warmth. The padfoot waitress flits between tables on nimble feet, the skirt of her uniform bellowing around her legs. Rookie and veteran adventurers are clustered in groups of four or five. Chattering excitedly or raising their tankards in a festive toast. Spearman greets those he knows and leads the exhausted party to the table closest by the hearth. The firewood crackles pleasantly. Soot papering the stone foundation. Lizard Priest takes the head of the table. His hulking form cuts an impressive figure; the priestly garments he wears are wet-stuck to his scales, like a second skin. Dwarf Shaman and High Elf Archer settle down on each side.

“--And I'm telling you that it doesn't count, you stubborn dwarf!” She shrieks, shrill, while the dwarf bursts out laughing. Spearman wasn't really following their argument, about the merits of dwarven crossbows or something; most of his attention had been focused on Goblin Slayer and Priestess. It's oddly endearing, watching this girl hover around the guy like a tiny mother hen.

Her sounding staff gleams with raindrops, firelit. She holds onto it tightly when she chastises him. “You shouldn't have flooded the outpost.”

“The river was close by,” Goblin Slayer replies, carefully unbuckling the worn leather clasp of his shield.

Priestess puffs out her cheeks. Some strands of honey blond hair are plastered to her face. “Can't you be a bit more considerate? You know she doesn't like it when you use fire, water or poison in fights… What if-- what if you altered the river's course?”

“Not by much,” he murmurs in response, placing the scabbard of his sword down in front of the fireplace. The glow of the flames washes over his back like an orange wave. “Give me your cloak,” he then says, holding out his hand.

“Ah, right!” Priestess exclaims, quickly shrugging off the oversized, coarse cloak. Goblin Slayer spreads it out to dry on the floorboards.

Spearman watches the exchange with a smile. He places his spear against the wall and turns to the table, intending to take the seat next to Witch. Their eyes meet, and she smirks, her eyes half-hooded. The tip of her pointy hat droops sideways when she props her elbow on the tabletop and rests her chin on her knuckles. Her gaze falls on Priestess, who blushes under its intensity. _ Huh _ ,  _ cute _ .

Witch addresses her directly. “Won't you come sit.” Here she pats the spot next to her. “I would like to hear. About your adventure. Would that be… alright? I am sure, you must have much to tell.” She remarks gently, her voice lilting like a lullaby.

“Yes!” Priestess stutters around the  _ y _ , grabbing the skirts of her robes with two fistfuls. “I mean of course, that wouldn't be a problem at all.” The skin peeking above her thigh highs a bright red from the cold.

With a sigh, Spearman settles down onto the bench, leaving space for Goblin Slayer. The wood groans under his added weight.

They order soup with full wheat bread on the side, roast for supper with pears and wild cranberries, a platter of grilled winter vegetables for High Elf Archer, and an assortment of cheese for Lizard Priest. The padfoot waitress serves them tankards of rich grape wine. Spearman listens attentively to Dwarf Shaman’s and Priestess’ retelling of their adventure, interspersed by High Elf Archer’s indignant squawks whenever the dwarf makes a joke at her expense and by Goblin Slayer’s remarks. He hasn’t bothered removing his helmet. The torn red ribbon sticks flatly to the metal.

“So what did you guys do?!” High Elf Archer asks, pounding her tankard onto the tabletop -- Lizard Priest gingerly picks up his plate and shoots her a look. Always excited to hear about “real” adventures that one. Her cheeks flushed already.

Spearman takes a big gulp from his drink, wipes his chin and answers, “Cleared a bandit camp. On the mountain pass way up north.”

From the corner of his eye he gauges Goblin Slayer for a reaction. The guy remains impassive, giving no indication he’s heard him speak up in the first place, spooning mouthfuls of food through the slits of his faceguard.

Turning back to High Elf Archer, Spearman continues, “There must’ve been a dozen of ‘em, right. Burly.  _ Tough _ . Armed to the teeth.”

“Tell us what happened!” She eggs him on loudly, grinning wide. Her companions nod in agreement; all eyes suddenly trained on him.

Basking in the attention, Spearman recounts the events of the day. How they trekked through the tall grass, the frozen ground like rock under their heels, and cautiously made their way to the encampment on the bluff overlooking the mountain pass. They smoked out the bandits. Set the wooden fortification ablaze with a simple fire spell. When he gets to the fight, Spearman becomes animated, gesturing wildly to emphasize certain parts, sometimes bumping into Goblin Slayer next to him. He took on  _ ten  _ bandits at the same time. Only one got to him, socked him in the face with a gauntleted fist.

Lizard Priest folds his paws together, eyes squinted half-shut, and offers, “I could heal that cut for you if you so pleased, milord Spearman.”

Spearman’s caught of guard for a moment. Witch flashes him a knowing look, and he declines casually, “Nah… Wouldn’t want to lose my battlescar.” He turns to Goblin Slayer and asks with a wink, “How else would people know I’m an adventurer, right?”

“You look like one,” Goblin Slayer deadpans in response. To Spearman’s surprise, the other members of the party start laughing, as if the guy just cracked a joke.

Unsure of how to react, Spearman tips back the rest of his wine. A bit too fast, because it clogs at the well of his throat, the taste sticking to his palate like honey. He swallows, curt. Tries not to acknowledge that Goblin Slayer is still watching him. His head angled to the side, the fire’s glow lining the back of his helmet with a streak of gold. _Did he offend him or something?_ The tavern turns rowdy when two adventurers start an armwrestling competition at the bar. Spearman peers at the gathering crowd past Goblin Slayer.

High Elf Archer slams her tankard down on the table in cheer and hops off the bench. “Let's go watch!” She commands, half-drunk. Dwarf Shaman strokes his beard and slips out of his seat as well, keeping his cup of fire-wine in hand. Satisfied, the elf turns to Goblin Slayer and says, “Orcbolg, you too!”

“It stopped raining,” he says matter-of-fact.

Lizard Priest casts a glance over his shoulder, at the lead-stained window behind him and hums in acknowledgement. “Indeed it has, milord Goblin Slayer.” His paws are pressed together again, eyes scrunched shut, like a cat's when petted. “I believe you would prefer to take your leave then?”

It dawns on Spearman that Goblin Slayer had been looking past him,  _ not at him. _ His lips press into a thin line.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Priestess exhales, almost inaudible over the pleasant crackling of the firewood and the shouting match near the counter. Her hair's dried, frazzled around the cheeks. In need of a good brush. She regards him intently when saying, “Please be careful on your way home.”

“I will,” Goblin Slayer promises, getting up from the bench under a barrage of complaints from High Elf Archer. Her voice crowding out the drunken struggle at the bar.

He drops a leather bag of coin onto the table and fetches his weapons.

Spearman crosses his arms in front of his chest, bouncing his leg impatiently. His expression pinches up when Witch bumps her foot against his ankle and levels him a look. Her eyes gleam under the brim of her hat, the smile on her face duplicitous. After years of fighting back to back, they learned to communicate by body language alone. With a tilt of the head Witch nudges him onwards. He heaves a sigh, surrenders. And then slams his fist onto the table, getting up.

High Elf Archer startles at the unexpected sound. Her lecture brought to an abrupt ending. Dwarf Shaman takes a gulp of fire-wine, peering up at him from underneath thick bristly eyebrows when he stands at full height.

Spearman sheepishly scratches his nose and announces, “I figured I'd come with... All this wine is getting to my head y'know, and I need some fresh air.” He jerks his head in Goblin Slayer's direction and asks, “You don't mind, do ya?”

Goblin Slayer bows his head, caught in the firelight, and mutters, “Do as you wish.”

The hollowed-out sound of his voice would scotch any attempt at accompanying him, but Spearman just grins. He then looks over at Witch and catches Priestess shaking her head helplessly next to her. When she notices him staring, she gives him a self-effacing smile, as if to say _you get used to it_. It serves to boost his confidence even further.

Taking his spear in hand, Spearman says brightly, “Right! Lead on, then.”

.

Thawed-out and wet, the muddy underground sucks at their boots; the wind whips mercilessly against his bare cheeks. The cut on his cheek throbs from the cold. Spearman wipes at his watery eyes and follows Goblin Slayer's shadowy form down the dirt road, both moons looming behind a slumber of clouds. In the first month of the new year, the weather always fluctuates between bitter frost, and cool and rainy. The candlelight from the lanterns around their hips sloshes unsteadily with every step. It spills over the mud like oil.

Spearman licks his dry-cracked lips. They haven't exchanged a single word since leaving the tavern, and the silence rings between his ears heavier than the wind around them. He'd wanted to breach the subject conversationally.  _ Why goblins? Don't you care about anything else? _

But the cold leaves him wrung-out, with the sound of his voice dying stillborn past his teeth.

After another few minutes of walking, Spearman wagers a gamble. He's the frontier's strongest, gods be damned, and he's faced worse than a talk with a fellow adventurer. Balling his hands into fists -- closed tighter than a padlock, he strides up to Goblin Slayer. His squelching footsteps echoing bravely in the dark.

“So,” Spearman begins, his breath a wet fog. “What's your deal, anyway? With goblins, I mean. You never wanna move on to bigger game?”

Goblin Slayer looks at him from over his shoulder, a courtesy for him, and replies curtly, “No.”

“Well why not?” Spearman presses on, courageous. “You could if you wanted to, y'know. Remember when we handled that sorcerer in his big white tower? Lil’ bit more practice and you'd be a great scout.”

“Not interested,” Goblin Slayer answers, pulling the threadbare cloak up to his chin, drawn tight over the span of his back.

The few trees near the road rustle their branches -- aspen, birches, a dried-out oak. A harrowing sound.

Spearman combs a gloved hand through his hair, exhales through his nose, loud like a bull. He makes another ditch effort. “You've got two cute girls in your party. Aren't you even a little bit interested in one of them? And with Guild Girl smiling at you like…” He trails off, swallows. Sounding too sour for his own ears. “And what about that farm girl? You went out on a limb for her farm, and okay, there were goblins too, but don't try and--”

“Not every farm gets saved.”

He snaps his head up, gives Goblin Slayer a surprised stare. The wind like a whiplash against his skin. Goblin Slayer's lantern lights up his belly, his chest, but leaves his helmet to the dark. Just a glint of metal. 

 _This guy_ , Spearman thinks, _why would he say something like that all of a sudden._ Inarticulate, he manages, “What?”

“Not every farm, not every village gets saved,” Goblin Slayer says slowly. “Mine didn't.”

They stop walking. The hemline of that threadbare cloak bellows in the wind; Spearman can hardly differentiate the outline against the dark. He shifts his spear from shoulder. The weight of his weapon a comfort. He tries to peer between the grates of Goblin Slayer's visor, trying to glimpse his eyes.  _ They were reddish, weren't they? _ \--he remembers from that celebration at the Guild, when he took his helmet off and…

“We’re already far from town,” Goblin Slayer turns towards the frontier town, towards the lights in the distance. _You should_ _head back_ remains unsaid.

The dismissal stings, worse than his cheek does, but his curiosity grows voracious, threatening to pull the  _ tell me _ out into the open. Spearman falters. Wants to do something  _ outrageous _ like reach out to him, grab him by the shoulders and rattle him a little, shake the whole confession out of him. He blinks, owlish.

“Right,” he mutters lamely, forcing a grin. “Guess I should get going then… See ya!”

Goblin Slayer remains unmoved, holding onto the rusted handle of the lantern tied around his waist. The candle wobbles on its iron perch. “Yes,” Goblin Slayer says then, simply assessing him. "I will probably see you at the Guild."

Spearman rubs the back of his neck, takes a step backwards. Another one. His foot sinking into the mud. He awkwardly balances his spear against his shoulder, not wanting to dirty the weapon, and turns to the opposite direction. The red moon peeks through wisps of clouds overhead. He takes a steadying breath and treks homewards, feeling the wind beat against his back like children's fists. His stomach in knots.

For the first time, he's looking forward to seeing Goblin Slayer again.


	2. chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He told me once… that nobody came for his village,” Priestess replies, taking the heavy set of pliers in hand. She then stares straight at Spearman. “I’m sure he's very grateful for your help, that time with the farm.” Her voice drops an octave. “Sir Goblin Slayer was very worried no one would want to help him.”
> 
> There's a lump down his throat. Lodged stuck.
> 
> Spearman averts his eyes, focuses on the patterns of the curtain, then on the street distorted through the lead-stained window glass. Fuck. His fingertips press down hard. Creases in the supple leather of his armguards. Why did I have to joke around first back then? Mentally berating himself, he doesn't notice the sound of footsteps growing louder behind him.
> 
> And then: “Excuse me, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation about Goblin Slayer.”
> 
> Guild Girl.

The morning light cascades over the foot of the bed. Spearman sits upright, the words Goblin Slayer said last night bobbing into his head.

_ So he's doing all this for his lost village, huh? _

Spearman combs his hair back, rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead and groans, loud. The blankets pooled around his waist. Goosebumps covering his skin; the fire in the hearth died sometime ago, leaving the room cold, unwelcome.

He gets up and stretches languorously, arms high above his head. Spearman mutters tiredly, “Why do I get this feeling I overlooked something?”

Throwing a glance outside, he moves to tie his hair in a ponytail. The window’s glossed over with rime, and past the slopes of the rooftops the pale winter sun comes peeking at the horizon. Spearman checks the cut on his cheek in the window glass and puts his earrings in. Left one first. Eyes narrowed as he ponders what he could've missed, if there was an inflection to Goblin Slayer's voice that he didn't catch.

It should bother him, shouldn't it? How much thought he's suddenly putting into the personal history of this goblin-obsessed weirdo.

Spearman breathes in deep. Inhales the overnight odor of the bedroom: burned wood, sweat, metal. He pushes the window open and tugs an undershirt over his head. The room's an organized mess; pieces of armor strewn over the impressive chest of drawers against the wall, a display case stuffed chock-full with enchanted jewelry, a fine layer of dust on an empty bookshelf.  _ Cozy _ .

Ignoring the rumble of his empty stomach, Spearman starts to get dressed. His bare skin cool underneath his roughened fingertips.

Breakfast first, then off to the Guild for today's “date”. Spearman can already picture Goblin Slayer sitting there on the sideline in the Guild hall, patiently waiting his turn. Smiling, Spearman works the clasps of his chestpiece. Puts on his greaves. Deftly buckles the clasps of his leather gauntlets. Laces up his boots.

His ponytail sways with every movement; the split ends demanding a haircut.

There's a collection of weapons hanging on a rack bolted to the opposite wall: a glaive, a two-handed axe decorated with gems, two spears and a halberd. He's been meaning to sell the axe. Hasn't gotten around to it. Spearman picks his favored weapon and teases a gloved fingertip to the sharpened head, slides his finger down the side of the blade. The leather flakes under the pressure.

Witch pushes the door open and leans against the frame with one arm under her bust. Her eyes although heavy-lidded, are lynx-like. The gemstone of her mage staff catches in the white sunlight.

“Are you ready. To go out?” She inquires, her head tilted to side, a few long strands of hair sliding down her cheek.

The  _ thud _ of his spear on the floorboards resounds through the room. “Sure am,” Spearman replies in a voice hoarse from sleep. He clears his throat, scratching the nape of his neck, and asks, “What 'bout you? Are we good for breakfast or do you wanna go somewhere else first?”

Her smile's deceptively demure. “I admit, I am curious. About your walk with _ him _ . You went to bed straight away, after your return. You must have been very… tired, no?”

“Don't make it sound like me and him fooled around in the woods or something,” Spearman retorts hotly, a wedge between his eyebrows.

Witch continues airily, “You should tell me, over breakfast, alright?”

She flicks her hand at him and turns away, the pointed tip of her hat slanting sideways over the back of her head. That's all the invitation he gets to fall into step. Spearman heaves a sigh.  _ Smug really isn't a good look on her. _

.

Clouds settle low over town sometime during their breakfast, so the winter sun has to curl around the edges. It's bleak, stay-at-home weather. When Spearman and Witch arrive at the Guild, the building’s already buzzing with people, a stark contrast with the washed-out streets of town.

Spearman spots Heavy Warrior and his party at a table in the dining area. Others, like that apprentice swordsman and his companion, are chattering excitedly on the benches in the great hall, in front of the massive pinboard.

His gaze flicks over to the reception. Out of habit. Catching a glimpse of Guild Girl behind the counter, prim and proper in that form-fitting uniform, Spearman straightens his shoulders and smiles widely. Looking like an overexcited puppy that gets to play  _ fetch _ . Before he can skip over to say hello, Witch stops him dead in his tracks. Her hand light as a feather on his forearm.

“Look,” Witch prompts, nodding over to the far end corner. “We should head over, and go greet her properly, don't you agree?”

_ Huh, where's that guy?  _ It's the first thought that pops into Spearman's mind when he sees Priestess sitting there alone, bent over a child-sized chainmail hauberk. With the weak light filtering in from the window behind her, the metal rings shimmer like water. He scratches the back of his head.  _ Isn't he here yet? _

“Shall we… then?” Witch insists gently, her arm hooked with his. Then, softer: “Perhaps, she will share with you, more about _him_...”

“I’m never gonna tell you anything ever again,” Spearman grits out while Witch chuckles quietly, the soles of his boots scuffing over the floor.

A few adventurers throw funny looks their way. He  _ pointedly _ ignores them.

Priestess snaps her head up when they come stand at the table. Her hat askance. Blonde curls framing the shape of her face. She's holding a metal ring pinched between thumb and forefinger and a set of pliers in her other hand. Spearman checks the hauberk spread out over the tabletop. It's cheap. Obviously made for rookies. From up close, the wear is apparent, the patina lackluster, scratched-up. Some rings bent out of shape.

“Do you mind, if we come join you?” Witch asks coyly, leaning her head to her staff as she stares down at the girl.

Wide-eyed, Priestess puts the ring and the pliers down.

“Please, take a seat!” She offers nervously, touching the backrest of the empty chair awkwardly. Her face flushes bright red when Witch siddles up to her.

Witch lights her pipe with a spark of magic; a burst of purple smoke shoots upwards. Eying the materials on the table, she leans back and puffs out her chest, emphasizing the plunging neckline of her mage robes. She takes a drag, exhales curtly and murmurs, “Oh, but you don't have to stop, on our account. We are just glad you want us, to keep you company.”

Priestess flushes a bright red, slouching in her seat. Spearman barely suppresses a grin.

“Repairing your gear like that…” Spearman begins, placing his spear next to Priestess’ sounding staff against the wall. “Are you short on coin? I can lend you some, y'know.”

“ _ Ah _ ,” Priestess exclaims, rubbing the side of her neck gingerly. “That's, that's quite alright, thank you. It's just a small hole. See?” She then points to a jagged circle on the chainmail at what would be hip-height to her. Her eyes crinkle when she says, smiling, “Sir Goblin Slayer taught me how to mend my armor.”

Ignoring the interested look Witch throws him, Spearman takes the chair right across Priestess and sits down. The image of Goblin Slayer teaching the girl simple repairs is oddly endearing. Spearman props his elbow on the table and leans his cheek against his gloved knuckles. The cut stings just a little.

“You seem to have adapted well, right?” Witch murmurs proudly. “The path you chose to walk becomes… defined.  _ Certain _ . I am relieved.”

Priestess ducks her head and stammers out a thank you. Spearman hums thoughtfully, not really following the turn of the conversation, while Witch just chuckles dryly and takes another puff of her pipe. Around them, the hall roars to life with laughter. He purses his lips. The question on the tip of his tongue.  _ What else did he teach you. _

His curiosity thumps under his skin, like it did last night on that downtrodden road.

“Hey,” Spearman addresses Priestess, turning his gaze to her face. Her eyebrows pitch together, confused. “About that guy again…” He clears his throat, tries to smile reassuringly. “There's not a lot of give to him, y'know, he's stoic and dense, and I was just wondering--”

“ _ He  _ is quite dense,” Witch cuts him off, her words neatly lobbing his sentence in half. She holds her pipe daintily between two fingers. Smiles Spearman down before turning to Priestess again and prompting, “Isn't he?”

Someone walks past them, the heels of their shoes clacking flatly on the floor. Spearman chances a glance over his shoulder. The reception is empty-- a quill lying abandoned on the countertop.

“Sir Goblin Slayer is a pretty hopeless person,” Priestess admits without a hint of diffidence. “He isn't very good with people,” this gets punctuated by a cute little laugh. Spearman smiles despite himself.

“He's kind though, and always interested in all sorts of things,  _ even if that's mainly because it might help him slay goblins _ . Do you remember that you brought us a sack of flour, back in Water Town? Well, he sparked an explosion in a ruin with it to kill a monster… but his heart is in the right place and he really  _ cares _ . And I didn't mean to talk this much,” Priestess concludes abashed, lowering her gaze.

Witch pats her shoulder and crowds closer, as if she's going to whisper promises of conspiracy in her ear. “His village, it was raided by goblins, wasn't it?”

_ I told you that confidentially--  _ Spearman fumes silently, crossing his arms over his chest. The chair squeaks when he starts bouncing his leg.

“He told me once… that nobody came for his village,” Priestess replies, taking the heavy set of pliers in hand. She then stares straight at Spearman. “I’m sure he's very grateful for your help, that time with the farm.” Her voice drops an octave. “Sir Goblin Slayer was very worried no one would want to help him.”

There's a lump down his throat. Lodged stuck.

Spearman averts his eyes, focuses on the patterns of the curtain, then on the street distorted through the lead-stained window glass. _Fuck._ His fingertips press down hard. Creases in the supple leather of his armguards _. Why did I have to joke around first back then?_ Mentally berating himself, he doesn't notice the sound of footsteps growing louder behind him.

And then: “Excuse me, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation about Goblin Slayer.”

_ Guild Girl _ .

She stands next to Spearman, hands folded neatly in front of her lap, and stares intently at Priestess. Her smile is warm, congenial. He admires how snug her blouse is around the chest. Witch crosses one leg over the other and takes a drag of her pipe, wisps of purple smoke curling along the corners of her mouth. Spearman stares between the two for a moment until Guild Girl speaks up again.

“I remember some time back…” She starts to tap her finger against her chin. “I think about the time when you started out adventuring with him. I thanked him for always being such a help and well, I don't know what prompted it, but he told me something,” a curt pause, a furrow of the brows. “It was  _ peculiar _ .”

Spearman ignores the jab of jealousy. Quick and easy, like a dagger slips through the ribs. He's used to Guild Girl's affection for the guy by now.  _ But still.  _ She's never once thanked  _ him _ like that.

“How so peculiar?” Priestess asks. Curiosity brimming in those big baby blues of hers.

Guild Girl looks off to the side and says, “I believe he explained to me in his own way  _ why _ he is who he is.” Her full lips are pursed together. The light plays tricks on her honey blonde hair.

Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, Witch then needles, “Won't you tell us, what he told you?”

“He asked me to imagine goblins attacking my home. Killing my friends and family. Plundering. Assaulting my sister--” Priestess snaps her head up at the word.

She pipes up, “Sir Goblin Slayer mentioned his sister to us too. He, uhm, he sounded very fond of her.”

The slam of the heavy wooden door echoes throughout the hall. A hush falls over the group of adventurers at the front.

Guild Girl continues, “Then, how I would train and mature, I recall he stressed that part very explicitly, and focus everything on hunting goblins. Going out again and again to slay them.” Her expression drops, saddens. “Looking back, maybe I shouldn't have taken the situation so lightly.”

_ How old was the guy when that happened? How old could he possibly have been? _ Spearman stares blankly at the chainlink rings of the hauberk, processing the information he just heard. It all just…  _ clicks _ together in his mind. His body's rigid, shoulders boxed in.

If it weren't for his years of experience, he wouldn't have noticed the soft sound of footfalls. He looks up.

Priestess sits straighter in her seat, and Witch tosses her hair over her shoulder, smirking amusedly. The atmosphere changes when Goblin Slayer and that farm girl approach the table. Guild Girl's face brightens. Goblin Slayer acknowledges them with a nod, but that farm girl greets everyone properly. Her nose is red, frostbitten. The woolen scarf wrapped around her neck is so long it almost reaches the back of her knees. Spearman says 'hello' a moment too late, when she's already moved on to Priestess again.

He plants his elbows on the tabletop and rests his chin on his folded hands. Observes the people around him quietly. Spearman gives Goblin Slayer a once-over. He's wearing that ratty cloak again, and his shield's not much cleaner than the night before.

His boots are caked in fresh mud, like he's already walked ten miles before getting here. The farm isn't  _that_ far from town.

“--If you want I could stamp the delivery note for you now. There is still some time before we announce today's quests,” Guild Girl offers kindly.

Cow Girl taps a finger to her mouth. Her hair windswept around her cold cheeks. “I don't mind waiting until he's gotten his quest,” she says then, casting a glance at Goblin Slayer. Her lips curl into a fond smile.

Following her gaze, Guild Girl dips her head and replies politely, “Of course. I'll be happy to help you after.”

Spearman listens to the conversation with half an ear.  _ That guy has two beautiful girls fallen in love with him and he doesn't even notice _ . With a wistful sigh, he looks over at Goblin Slayer. His cheap chest piece remains dull in the pale sunlight. The fur around his neck is streaked through with dirt. Spearman rests his uncut cheek against his knuckles and stares blatantly, unabashed.

“Did you sleep last night?” Goblin Slayer asks Priestess.

Her reply is a pleasant hum. Witch props an arm on the backrest of her chair and takes a long drag from her pipe, watching the exchange attentively. She glances at Spearman from the corner of her eye.

“I see,” Goblin Slayer murmurs quietly, putting his hand on the pommel of his short sword. The threads of the leather scabbard are a mottled yellow.

Priestess motions at the small hole in the chainmail and declares proudly, “I'm trying to fix my armor like you taught me, sir Goblin Slayer. Look, and then I need to weave it around these three, right?”

She gets to work on the tiny metal ring with the pliers, bends it open and weaves it around the others. Her hair falls around her face.

“You'll need a second ring,” Goblin Slayer remarks matter-of-factly. Priestess rubs her cheek thoughtfully, brows furrowed together. He explains, pointing at the chainlink,  “A blacksmith once told me that the 4-in-1 pattern is the most common one for chainmail. If you don't weave in a second ring for support, a goblin knife or a goblin arrowhead will slip through easier.”

“Maybe you should give her a hand,” Cow Girl suggests kindly, resting a hand on her bosom.

Goblin Slayer tilts his head. It's hard to tell what he's looking at with that helmet on. The darkness behind the slates of the visor doesn't give away much. Spearman smiles when Goblin Slayer quietly concedes, “I will.” He turns to Guild Girl and requests, “Could I borrow some ink? Black and blue, if you have it.”

“What do you need that for, sir Goblin Slayer?” Priestess asks aloud with a puzzled expression.

“It's easier to see how to repair it that way,” he responds cryptically. Then elaborates, “If you work with two colors, you can identify the pattern and see which rings are interwoven, and how. It helps when you have to determine how many rings you need to repair a hole. That blacksmith taught me as much.”

Guild Girl readily nods and says brightly, “I'll bring some over right away.”

One of the other receptionists appears in the open doorway leading to the backroom. She's carrying a stack of papers in her arms. Guild Girl worries her lower lip, looks at the hourglass on the counter and back at the party gathered around the table. _ It's time. _ The adventurers in the hall grow restless with excitement. Guild Girl excuses herself with a curt bow and walks over to her colleague.

Witch gracefully rises from her chair, takes her magic staff in hand and announce to Spearman, “We should take a spot… near the pinboard, no?” She regards Priestess with heavy-lidded eyes and says gently, “Give it your all today.”

“ _ Ah! _ I will. Thank you! And you-- you as well,” Priestess stammers out, holding the set of pliers haphazardly in one hand.

Spearman shoves the chair back--its stubby wooden legs scraping over the floor. He grabs his spear. Casts one last glance at Goblin Slayer from over his shoulder and stiffens when he catches the guy looking at him. Really looking at him.  _ What else would he be looking at? Priestess’ sounding staff? The wall? _

They haven't exchanged a word this whole time. Spearman wonders how loud those memories can get sometimes, how you can quiet the sound of a village pillaged. He didn’t expect to learn  _ so much  _ about the guy in such a short time. It’s upset his balance.

He swallows curtly -- a hollow click between the ears, like a branch snapped underfoot.

Guild Girl and her colleague stride over to the gigantic cork noticeboard and start hanging up today’s quests. Adventurers throng around them. Pushing and shoving. Spearman realizes that if he doesn’t want to get stuck with killing giant rats in the sewers, he’ll have to get a move on.  _ Fast _ . Witch leans her head against the jeweled knob of her staff, an expectant look on her face.

“Hey,” Spearman addresses Goblin Slayer, holding his spear loosely with the blade downturned. Confidence always came natural to him. “You better wish me luck out there…”

“I will,” Goblin Slayer answers unflinchingly, without a second of hesitation.

Satisfied, Spearman grins ear to ear and combs a hand through his hair. Warmth spreads through his chest. It compels him to waver in place for a moment more.

“And you,” Spearman begins, staring undaunted at that gritty helmet. Goblin Slayer tips his head back; sunlight slants over his visor. “You better get back in one piece too, okay? Ain’t nobody around here that slays goblins like you. Well,  _ whatever _ , see ya.” With a casual salute, he turns towards the pinboard and takes his leave.

Barely catches the murmured response. He doesn’t stop grinning.

Witch falls into step with him; the brim of her hat falling low, concealing her eyes. She’s uncharacteristically quiet -- he was certain she’d have a flippant remark at the ready about what he just did.

Spearman elbows his way through a group of veteran adventurers. Amazon Warrior shoots him an annoyed look, and he simply shrugs, a  _ what-can-you-do  _ gesture. There’s the typical rookie stuff: rat-killing and fetch quests. For veterans, bounties on bandit chiefs, on necromancers terrorizing the countryside, on warlocks enthralling travelers down forest tracks. The rewards range from a few coppers and silvers to pouches of gold coin. His eye falls on a goblin-slaying quest.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile -- He continues looking.

“Maybe…” Witch starts softly, her body lined up against the wall, arms crossed under her bust. The other adventurers gravitate away from her, giving the two of them furtive glances in passing. Spearman hums in acknowledgement, snatching a quest from the pinboard. She curls a finger under her chin and continues in a cloying voice, “You should invite  _ him  _ someday, no? I believe, it might be...  _ interesting _ .”

Okay, he  _ really _ doesn’t like the way she emphasized that last word.

“Yeah, well, first things first.  _ We _ got a date with a power-crazed hedge mage in some ancient moss-eaten crypt.” Spearman says, steering the topic of conversation away from Goblin Slayer. Gods forbid he actually develops a soft spot for the guy, gods forbid if it  _ spreads  _ all throughout his chest, fuzzy and wild. He tidily rolls up the sheet of paper and adds, “Hey, you like creepy forests, right?”

If Spearman had to describe the look on his companion’s face, he would settle for  _ long-suffering _ .

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments on this story. i never imagined to get this much feedback. i'm so excited to continue this story! i hope you have enjoyed this chapter as well, and please don't hesitate to comment<3 it makes my day!


	3. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accepting the offer, Spearman nods and then takes out the scroll and puts it onto the counter. The blacksmith's stone-faced look crumbles. Spearman can't help but crack a grin, triumphant in the knowledge he's about to cash in big. He leans over again, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. The banging of the hammer continues on the backdrop.
> 
> The blacksmith whistles long and low. “Goblin Slayer has been badgering me about one o’ these for quite some time now.”
> 
> Mentioning Goblin Slayer is enough to have him tense up these days, Spearman thinks wryly.
> 
> Spearman purses his lips. The hairbrained decision of simply giving Goblin Slayer the gate scroll floats up the forefront of his mind like a damned apparition. Before he can put a stop to this chain of thought, it starts to spiral. It might even be the perfect push to settle into an actual conversation and navigate Goblin Slayer's past, so Spearman can finally satisfy his curiosity. Figure out the how’s and why's of the guy. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth. The blacksmith drops a hefty coin purse on the countertop and considers the deal sealed.
> 
> Too bad Spearman isn't in this business for money.

They've been hiking into the woods for well over two hours, downhill and back up, when they come across a small clearing. Surrounded by white-toothed pines, the crypt looks undisturbed; the entrance overrun with knee-length weeds and brushwood. Nature creeping in. 

Inside then: an antechamber and a stairwell that yawns into the darkness. The ceiling hangs low above their heads; the flickering sconces around them the only indication someone's been here recently. Burial urns lie smashed apart in a corner, a heap of ceramic. The sarcophages in the center of room unlidded, looted; the folded hands of the embalmed corpses pried open, emptied-out. There's a trail of fresh blood on the flat slabs of stone, leading downwards.

Spearman scrunches his nose and yanks a torch from the wall. 

The age-worn stairs are steep and overgrown with slippery moss. Spearman offers a hand to Witch on the last step, his torchlight flickering in the confined space of the catacombs. Grave robbers have been down here too: the coffins lining up the walls are broken open and a crowbar lies abandoned on the floor. Witch daintily steps over a corpse that tumbled face-first from its sarcophagus. 

Light beckons them from the far end of a narrow corridor. Spearman heads onwards after exchanging a look with Witch. 

At the doorway, the hedge mage mounted a goat's head on a stake. Blood mats the fur around its throat. Its eyes dim in the abundant light. They peer inside the room, a shrine to the God of Knowledge at one point in time judging by the imagery of the altarpiece. It's desecrated now. The whole place  _ reeks _ , the floor rusted with the blood of gutted animals.

“Seems like… chaos magic to me,” Witch comments, sounding airy and unconcerned. 

Narrowing his eyes, Spearman whispers back, “You think we can get the drop on 'em?” 

His gaze flicks back to the hunched-over figure at the back of the room. A distorted shadow drags on in the light of the iron-wrought fire pit. Clumps of bloodied fur are strewn around the hedge mage. A low sound echoes through the room: the rattle of bone-chimes.

Witch touches the stone frame of the doorway and leans in. Firelight slashes across her hat, her face, her collarbone. “Only way to know, is to roll the dice, right?”

“You should stay back and keep dispel at the ready,” Spearman advises, handing her the torch. 

Dexterity will be the deciding factor. He sucks in a breath and darts out of the passageway. Into the open. He skids over the stone underground. His boots grinding chunks of gravel underheel. The hedge mage turns, wild-eyed, barely dodging the jab of a spear. 

Tattered robes whip around pale, stick-thin legs; the mage's bare-footed. The carved skull tied around her waist snaps its jaw shut.

He can see what she was busying herself with: ribbons of moist pink flesh sprawling from a calf's sliced-open belly, the ribs angled outwards with two or three snapped away. The animal's tongue flopping out its dry-cracked maw, its dead gaze directed upwards. 

“ _ You dare _ ,” the hedge mage rasps, face contorted in an ugly snarl. Something birdlike about her features; hook-nosed and beady-eyed.

Spearman smirks and readying his weapon, retorts, “Yep.” He pops the 'p’ cheekily, sweeping the head of his spear over the floor. “I  _ dare _ .”

“Arrogant fool, barging in, meddling with rituals beyond your  _ ken _ ,” she hisses, spitting out the last word. “If you interfere with my plans, you will be accursed--”

“No offense,” Spearman interjects calmly, getting into a fighting stance, crouched low. “But I kinda heard this before, so…” He doesn't finish his sentence, dashes at her. 

The hedge mage jolts back, kicking up dust and ash. Muttering words of power.  _ Sagitta inflammarae raedius.  _

But Witch speaks her spell faster: the arrow of flame sputters, dies, an impotent screen of smoke rises from the hedge mage's blood-soaked hand. Spearman jumps up, weapon held high. The hedge mage backs off. Her foot catching in gore. A squelching sound. Followed by the clang of metal on stone. The skull tumbles from her waist, its string snapped loose. Clatters to the ground. 

It looks like it's laughing, jaw clicking and clacking. Open and shut.

_ Old hag's nimbler than she looks _ . Spearman thinks, hefts his spear. She narrows her eyes at him, dark like buttons. 

Witch calmly walks down the four steps from the doorway into the room proper. The hedge mage's gaze flicks to her, back to Spearman. Her posture tense, cramped, one step backwards, and she smears cow guts all over the floor. Mumbling under her breath. Urgent. Words garbled, but  _ no, wait  _ \-- _ tonitrus oriens iacta _ \-- a lightning spell. Spearman inhales curtly, looking back at Witch.

She juts out her chin defiantly. Protective wards shoot out in front of them. 

The crack of thunder proves deafening inside the room. Its sound alone enough to topple some ornaments off the huge altar. Electricity sizzles in the air. Wards intact. Spearman nearly chokes on the overwhelming smell of ozone, of singed fur. He watches the hedge mage carefully. She bristles, proverbial feathers ruffled, and spits a brownish phlegm at the ground. Wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. 

Spearman doesn't waste any time and takes the opening for what it is. He  _ moves _ .

And the hedge mage is too slow to dodge this time around. He hits her over the head with his spear. Her eyes widen, shocked. The impact has her reeling. Spearman pulls back and then thrusts the spearhead through the neck. The sound the hedge mage makes comes out strangled. Blood clotting in the cavern of her mouth. He keeps _ pushing _ . Her dirty hands make aborted movements to her neck, twitching and spasming. 

With a final twist of the spear, she dies. Throat slashed open. Blood spluices down her chest when Spearman yanks his weapon free. 

“That takes care of that,” he mutters, holding his spear one-handedly. His eyes wander around the room. “Now. For the important stuff… Where would she hide the treasure?”

Witch chuckles at his words and unceremoniously drops the torch in one of the braziers at the door. The  _ thunk  _ of her staff echoes on in the silence, as she walks over to the center. She wipes two fingertips to the dirty surface of the altar and wrinkles her nose. When she takes another step, shards of ceramics crack beneath her feet. She raises an eyebrow, bends over and picks something up. A red gem, glimmering in the firelight.

“Not too… bad.  _ Right? _ ” Witch remarks with a sly smile, holding the ruby up. “There are coins here too.” 

Spearman hums in response and looks over to the far-end, cobwebbed corner. Maybe there's a chest or something. Turns out there  _ isn't _ upon closer inspection, but the hedge mage left a staff behind, a crude thing fastened from branch and bone, string and feather. It  _ reeks _ of fire, brimstone. Pitch-black magic. Spearman supposes they were lucky that the old hag didn't have her hands on the thing during the fight.  _ Best not to sell it. _ He gives the staff another once-over, and then snaps it in half. 

What else is there? Spearman crouches, pats around the floor for a forgotten coin pouch or something. He frowns when he hears the distinctive rustle of paper.

_ No fucking way. _

“Hey,” he calls to Witch, standing back upright and walking over. “Can you tell me if this is what I think it is?” 

She raises an eyebrow when he throws a roll of paper onto the altar. It's ancient, that much is apparent, from the yellowed color of the parchment to the fraying string keeping it tied up. Witch squints and hands Spearman her staff. She slowly tugs off her right glove, leaving her arm bare, and gingerly drags a fingertip over the length of the scroll. Magic thrums under her touch. 

“ _ My my _ , I haven't seen one of these since,  _ that guy _ asked me for a favor,” Witch says, tone of voice like cloying molasses. It sets Spearman on edge.  

He doesn't have to guess who she's talking about, but his curiosity's baited by the cryptic comment. Hook, line and sinker.

“What?” Spearman asks impatiently, awkwardly holding onto both his weapon and hers. 

Witch rubs her thumb over her fingertips with hooded eyes, shaking off the leftover magic residu. She peers at him from the corner of her eye and says, “You suspected this to be, a magic scroll, right? It  _ is _ …” here her lips twitch into one of those smiles he unashamedly calls  _ duplicitous _ . 

“And the part about  _ that guy _ ?” He prompts, watching how she pulls her glove back on. 

With a shrug, Witch picks up the scroll and swaps it for her mage staff. His shadow falls over her face. “This scroll in particular is a  _ gate scroll _ ,” she begins to explain. “They are very rare, aren't they?  _ He  _ once asked me, to link a  _ fascinating _ destination to one of these. To the bottom of the sea, it was.” She finishes and taps a finger to her chin.

Her smile is too sharp, something to cut your fingers on.

“Aren't gate scrolls supposed to be used for hightailing the fuck out of somewhere? Why would that guy choose a place like…  _ Shit _ , don't say it. Goblin slaying 'f course.” Spearman huffs then, unconsciously tightening his grip on the scroll clenched in his fist. Trust Goblin Slayer to turn a nifty little magical gateway into a murder weapon.

“I do recall, that elven archer girl regaling us with a tale. About an encounter with an ogre, no?” Witch says inconnously, gauging his reaction. 

It's been months ago, but Goblin Slayer being out of commission for three days had been an oddity, something memorable, something worth gossiping about. Spearman didn't need to prod to get to the bottom of it. Not that he had wanted to. High Elf Archer vented to everyone who would to listen. He didn't mind, as long as she kept on ordering. She'd gone off a tangent about her very first adventure with Goblin Slayer that evening, about elven ruins turned goblin nest, led by a fearsome ogre. 

And Goblin Slayer killing it with a gate scroll linked to the ocean floor.

Spearman surveys the room again, gaze lingering on the dead hedge mage for a second or two, and addresses Witch again, “The scroll’s valuable though. Right?”

“Very valuable, indeed,” she reaffirms easily, the look on her face hard to read.

.

The trek back to town is a tough one: a strong headwind and a pin prick drizzle that leaves you soaked to the bone. Spearman pulls the hood of his cloak tight under the chin. Cold rain water drips down his face. He keeps the gate scroll tucked away inside his right gauntlet, safe from the sorry weather. The dry parchment chafes against his skin.

.

The thick smell of the forge out back clogs his nose the moment he opens the door: the heady scent of smoke, coal dust and iron. Behind the counter, the blacksmith looks up disinterestedly. With his right eye screwed shut and the tufts of gray hair around his temples sticking up, the old man looks somewhat cooky. It's quiet inside the shop aside from the bellow of the forge and the faraway sound of a hammer. That apprentice boy must be practicing.

Spearman walks on over and drops the jewelled axe onto the countertop. The hollow ‘thump’ resounds through the store. The blacksmith lifts a fuzzy eyebrow, unimpressed. 

“How much do ya think it's worth?” Spearman asks, bending over and folding his elbows on the counter, looking at the blacksmith expectantly. 

He crowds his face closer to inspect the craftsmanship. Deep lines are edged between his brows. A hum, followed by, “Blade's dull. Ain't good for splitting skulls anymore.” The blacksmith carefully grabs the axe by the handle and turns it around in the light. “Is a pretty thing, might look good above a nobleman's bed.”

“Can't you sharpen it or something?” Spearman suggests, watching the blacksmith run a thick, calloused finger over the blade.

“I could, but the thing's too damned shiny to function as a proper weapon. Twenty gold coins and five silvers.” The blacksmith snorts someway ugly and adds, “To get it off your hands.”

Accepting the offer, Spearman nods and then takes out the scroll and puts it onto the counter. The blacksmith's stone-faced look crumbles. Spearman can't help but crack a grin, triumphant in the knowledge he's about to cash in  _ big _ . He leans over again, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. The banging of the hammer continues on the backdrop.

The blacksmith whistles long and low. “ _ Goblin Slayer _ has been badgering me about one o’ these for quite some time now.”

Mentioning Goblin Slayer is enough to have him tense up these days, Spearman thinks wryly.

Spearman purses his lips. The hairbrained decision of simply  _ giving  _ Goblin Slayer the gate scroll floats up the forefront of his mind like a damned apparition. Before he can put a stop to this chain of thought, it starts to spiral. It might even be the perfect push to settle into an actual conversation and navigate Goblin Slayer's past, so Spearman can  _ finally  _ satisfy his curiosity. Figure out the how’s and why's of the guy. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth. The blacksmith drops a hefty coin purse on the countertop and considers the deal sealed.

Too bad Spearman isn't in this business for money. 

He straightens up and rolls his neck from side to side, then picks the scroll back up with an apologetic smile. “I,  _ uh _ , changed my mind.”

“Did'ya now?” The blacksmith grumbles, crossing his thick arms over his barreled chest. “Ain't this enough gold for you?”

“Just take out the coins for the axe, and I'll get out of your hair…” Spearman trails off lamely, gesturing to the blacksmith's balding head. In turn, the blacksmith levels him a look.  _ Shit. “ _ Look, it’s just a figure of speech, okay?” 

Scratching his forehead, the blacksmith gives a couple of sharp nods, then opens the coin purse and takes out the share for the axe. Grateful, Spearman pockets the money and leaves. Slinking past the weapon racks and armor stands, up the winding stairs to the curb of the street. The air's crisp and chilly. Spearman breathes in deep, rolling back his shoulders. 

Now he just has to find Goblin Slayer --preferably alone-- and carve straight into it. 

.

Spearman comes across the guy at the courtyard where he sits in the shade of a tree, meticulously sharpening branches into bolts with practiced flicks of the wrist. Specks of weak, silvery sunlight mottled on his chest piece. Goblin Slayer looks up when Spearman settles down next to him on his haunches, arms around his knees, the end of his ponytail brushing his lower back, but he doesn’t verbally acknowledge his presence. It should piss Spearman off, but it somehow  _ doesn’t _ . 

An irritated shriek draws his attention to the center of the training grounds for a moment. High Elf Archer swats at Dwarf Shaman with a scowl on her face, and Spearman recognizes the half-metal, half-wooden contraption in those big dwarven hands as a  _ crossbow _ . 

They seem pretty preoccupied. He turns back to Goblin Slayer.

“Yo,” Spearman greets with a tilt of the head, grinning brightly. Barreling through the trepidation tugging on his chest. He fumbles with the clasp of his gauntlet and when there’s enough give, slips the gate scroll out and throws it onto Goblin Slayer’s lap. “That old blacksmith told me you were looking to buy a scroll like this one.”

Goblin Slayer’s busy hands still, a sure-sign that Spearman’s earned his full attention. The sunlight glints off the visor of his helmet. “Sorry,” Goblin Slayer apologizes then, softly. “But I do not have the coin with me to pay you for it."

“Guess it’s a good thing that you don’t gotta pay me then, huh?” Spearman responds pleasantly, settling down on the ground beside him, overlooking the training grounds. 

After a beat of silence, Goblin Slayer murmurs, “I am in your debt.”

“Don’t gimme that,” Spearman chides in return, nudging the guy with his elbow -- and why are they sitting  _ this close _ anyway? He lays off abruptly, shuffling to the side some more. Curls of shaved-off wood eddy about with the movement. “You could just  _ thank me _ like any other person would when they get an awesome gift like that.” He finishes that sentence off by crossing one leg over the other.

Goblin Slayer angles his head to look at him, and he’s definitely  _ looking at him _ , because this gaze holds  _ weight _ . “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” Spearman answers quickly, tipping back until he’s leaning against the sturdy trunk of the tree. His eyes wander back to the neat piles of branches and bolts. “What are you making those for, anyway?”

“I’m going to test the efficiency of a dwarven crossbow against goblins on the next quest. Dwarven Shaman told me they were effective in close quarters,” Goblin Slayer explains matter-of-factly, prompting another grin from Spearman. If he happens to see, he doesn’t draw attention to it.

_ Okay, so how the fuck do I start this conversation?  _ Folding his hands behind his head, Spearman gazes up at the clear sky. The contrast with yesterday’s gloomy weather couldn’t be starker. Goblin Slayer takes the lull in conversation as permission to continue; the soft skittering of the blade overshadowed only by the  _ thunk  _ of a practice arrow hitting bullseye on one of the training grounds’ targets and the party members’ subsequent squabbling. 

“Hey, look,” he starts and immediately stops again, bathing his lower lip with his tongue. It’s not a good thing to do in this kind of cold, but Spearman can’t help it. “I heard some things about you, no,  _ a lot of _ things about you lately...”

“Is that so?” Goblin Slayer mutters dispassionately, grating at the bolt like he would with a carrot, sharpening the tip into something deadly. Wood dust whirls around his gloved hands. 

Spearman nods and swallows the lump down his throat. “Yeah, I did--” and when Goblin Slayer doesn't react to the admission, he gets annoyed and tacks on with an undercurrent of frustration in his voice, “Aren't you interested in what I heard?”

“Does it have to do with goblins?” He prompts, swapping a finished bolt for a branch. 

“ _ No _ , it fucking doesn't. I said it was about you, didn't I?” Spearman hisses between gritted teeth. He resists the urge to shove at the guy when he has the  _ fucking gall _ to look disappointed, or as disappointed as someone in full-body armor can get. Nobody else worms their way under his skin like Goblin Slayer does. He sighs and mutters, “Goblins didn't just raid your village, they also killed your family, right?”

Goblin Slayer pauses his work and regards him sideways, head slightly tilted left, shoulders still boxed-in. “My parents were dead before.”

Expecting him to elaborate on the topic, Spearman draws his knees up a bit. Digging grooves in the wet, dark soil with the heels of his boots. The bald tree branch above them dip under the weight of a large crow. It oddly reminds him of that old hag he fought yesterday.

“I watched them kill my sister,” Goblin Slayer admits after another beat of silence, another long satisfying scrape of the knife.

Spearman doesn't have a response to that, so he settles for an eloquent  _ shit _ . But the cogs in his brain are already turning at the implications of that confession and before he can help himself, he asks a barrage of questions, all at once. “How old were you even? You make it sound like you were a kid at that time.  _ Were you? _ And how did you survive a fucking _ awful _ situation like that?”

Before Goblin Slayer gets the chance to answer, High Elf Archer yells for him to come over, startling the crow above. It caws and flaps its heavy wings indignantly.

“Sorry,” Goblin Slayer mutters, clambering upright and patting the wood dust and splinters off his lap. 

Huffing, Spearman forcibly bumps the back of his head against the tree bark. “It's whatever, I guess,” he responds flippantly, even if his tone of voice suggests anything but.  _ So close _ . “We're not through with this conversation, though.”

“I will be shortly leaving however,” Goblin Slayer says. “I have someone waiting for me.”

He rolls his eyes and flicks his hand at him. “Not what I meant,” Spearman bites out, unable to keep from smiling a bit.

“Is that so?” Goblin Slayer murmurs confusedly at the same time High Elf Archer's high-pitched and impatient 'Orcbolg’ resounds over the training grounds again.

Spearman hugs his knees like back when he was an overexcitable kid and peers up at Goblin Slayer with half-hooded eyes. “I wanna know what makes you tick and when I want something, I really  _ want something _ . So, yeah, we're not done with this conversation yet.”

“I see.” 

Dwarven Shaman pitches in with a harried 'Beard-Cutter’, and Goblin Slayer turns his head; the sunlight catching on the curve of his helmet like quicksilver. The fat crow startles into flight when High Elf Archer stomps over. She tugs on Goblin Slayer’s hand. Her complaints about the dwarven crossbow don’t seem to faze him, even when they keep on coming, faster and louder, and Dwarven Shaman breaks out laughing heartily in the background. 

_ I guess I could stick around a lil’ longer _ , Spearman thinks, smiling  _ that  _ bit wider and nestling his cheek against his kneecaps.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for your feedback, your likes and your support. it continues to amaze me. i'm so grateful<3 i hope you all enjoyed this chapter as well!! please don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts!! i struggled with the fight scene tbh, i'm so clumsy with them, haha. but again, thank you ever so much!


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